


there is quiet for just a moment

by blithelybonny



Series: call me son (one more time) [6]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Character Study, M/M, one man's fluff is everyone else's angst and concern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 05:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12183570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: Everything is easier on the ice, or Bob and Kent go on a date.





	there is quiet for just a moment

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks, as ever, to team hell in a handbasket, for the encouragement and the beta-ing and the feeling that, hey, at least we're all in this together.
> 
> Title, also as ever, is from Hamilton.
> 
> I'm going to stop apologizing for this eventually. Obviously I'm not that sorry if I keep producing content. <3 But, finally as ever, I'm sorry.

Sweat drips down and stings Bob’s eyes; he doesn’t have the stamina on the ice that he used to have, but Kent doesn’t expect much from him, he knows. Kent needs the private rink, not the company. 

The scrape of stick on ice draws Bob’s gaze as he slowly skates back to the bench. He leans against the partition instead of climbing over and watches Kent net one right and high, then turn and grin back at Bob.

Last night Kent climbed into Bob’s lap halfway through a rerun of _Friends_ and frotted their cocks together until they both came in their pants before the commercial break had even ended. He kept his face firmly planted against Bob’s shoulder even though it wasn’t the most comfortable spot, and Bob had wondered throughout the rest of the episode—at what point did Kent stop wanting to look at him.

Today Kent’s eyes are on him more often than they are on the puck, seeking approval or maybe just acknowledgment even though Bob’s not yet sure he's been forgiven, so yeah, maybe he does need the company.

“Hey!” Kent calls, before hustling over to the bench and icing Bob probably for the fun of it. “I thought you were gonna show me the real life triple deke.” One hand hangs over the lip of the partition, and the other loosely circles the handle of his practice stick. He’s panting a little bit. He always works so hard.

Bob wants to reach out and push the sweaty mess of bangs back from Kent’s forehead. He wants to keep pushing his hand over the crown, wants to push until he’s pulling instead, a hand curled around the back of Kent’s neck, tugging him forward into the cradle of Bob’s arms. But the rink is only private, which is not the same as empty, and so he has to be careful. He always has to be so damn careful.

“What?” Kent asks.

Bob’s stared too long. He manages a smile, leans over to grab a packet of sunflower seeds from the bench and offers it to Kent with a little shake of his hand.

Kent rolls his eyes as he holds out his hand. Bob shakes several into his palm, and Kent tosses them in the direction of his mouth, landing a few. Bob watches the others drop onto the ice instead of watching Kent skate away.

He thinks for a moment about Jack, who’s called just once, just long enough to say, “I’m still here,” and who had ended the call before Bob could ask any follow-up questions.

Jack lost his first tooth here at the rink when he was seven years old. (Bob didn’t own the rink then, although he’d still been able to get private practice time. His name used to mean a lot. His name still means something.) Jack didn’t even cry when he saw the blood. He spat the tooth out into his palm, looked up at Bob and said, “ _Comme toi, Papa?_ ” Bob tapped him on the nose and grinned, pointing out each of his four fake teeth. Jack frowned and then said quietly, “ _J'ai besoin d'un protège-dents_ ”.

He thinks he laughed.

He thinks, _we love this_ , as Kent flicks a sharp little wrister that sails just a hair too wide. _We love the way this makes us feel_. “Adjust your angle a little, Kenny,” Bob calls out. He’s not sure if his voice carries enough, but when Kent’s next shot is perfect, he chooses to believe it did.

They stay for another forty-five minutes or so, until Kent asks to be taken home, and the ache in Bob’s chest dissipates a little. It’s the considerate way Kent makes the request about himself rather than the fact that Bob’s lost a few steps: _my calves feel like jelly. Let’s go home. You can rub them for me._

Kent pulls Bob into the huge walk-in shower with him when they get home, and he makes a bit of a show of carefully cleaning up, but otherwise doesn’t make a move to start anything beyond one firm, declaratory kiss. Bob washes Kent’s hair, scritching his fingers through the slightly too-long strands and relishing the way Kent sways back against him.

“Hey,” Kent says quietly, barely loud enough over the spray, as Bob ruts slowly up against the crack of Kent’s ass. Bob’s barely hard, but it feels good anyway. “I thought you were gonna rub my calves.”

The first time Bob saw Kent and Jack on the ice together, it’d been magic. As young and untested as they were, there was something seamless in the way their passes connected and their shots on goal slipped past blockers and gloves. There was something seamless in the way they found each other without even looking sometimes.

He thinks he even said something to that effect, and he’d meant it as praise. Jack had scowled and looked down, but Kent had beamed, bright and wide-eyed, before reaching up to squeeze Jack’s shoulder. _Did you hear that? Your dad thinks we’re awesome!_ All in one squeeze, one look, no words aloud.

Kent was such a good kid. He could have been so good for Jack—Jack needed someone who knew how to worship.

Bob towels Kent off and takes him to bed. He fucks Kent slow, too slow going by the high, tight whine in the back of his throat or the dig of his heels into Bob’s ass. He fucks Kent with patience, stroking Kent's cheekbones with his thumbs to coax open Kent's eyes.

“Fuck, please!” Kent begs, but Bob only slows down further. He thrusts in, inch by inch, and stays, makes a home there in the slick heat for as long as he can bear, holding out against Kent's impatient clenching and digging heels, then pulls out just as slowly, savoring.

He’ll miss this. He misses this.

Kent opens his eyes when his mouth falls open, slack with wordless pleasure and always so beautiful. He opens his eyes, and they’re blue-black with desire.

Bob comes over Kent’s pelvis, stuttered and quick, like it's been pulled from him without his permission. Minutes later, Kent rolls Bob to his back and strokes out his own release onto Bob’s chest.

“Come on,” Kent says. He's standing in the bedroom doorway in a pair of Bruins sweatpants and holding two bottles of beer. Bob doesn't remember dozing off. “It's really nice out tonight.”

Bob's knees ache a little as he climbs out of bed. He's still tacky with sweat and dried come, but Kent’s leading him outside and settling on the porch-swing, and Bob hasn't shared it with anyone all summer.

He presses his nose against the thin skin behind Kent’s ear; Kent smells like clean sweat, tastes cold and sharp like the ice they’ve left behind, and the skin pebbles up, as his breath hitches in his throat. Bob lightly touches his tongue there, soothing for a moment, before he kisses the same spot, warm and fond.

“I’m…” Bob inhales and exhales three more times before Kent continues, “I’m hungry.”

“Okay,” Bob breathes, though he only shifts in his seat so that they’re side-by-side again. He sifts his fingers through Kent’s hair, strokes through the stubborn cowlick that has plagued Kent as long as Bob has known him. Kent hums in the back of his throat, but lets himself lean a little more into Bob’s side. The porch-swing drifts back and forth in the cool summer night breeze, and everything’s okay.


End file.
